She lowered her head on her arms. "I think," she said slowly, "we should elope."
"Hey, that's good," Simon piped up. "Alternatives to wedding stress. I had this cousin…"
This time Margaret's airplane hit him right between the eyes.
Within weeks, Deanna's organized desk was jumbled with sketches of bridal gowns, from the elaborately traditional to the funkily futuristic.
Behind her, the same homely plastic tree Jeff had hauled into her office that first Christmas leaned precariously to starboard, overweighted by balls and garlands. Someone — Cassie, she assumed — had spritzed some pine-scented air freshener around. The cheery aroma made the fading dyed plastic boughs even more pathetic. And Deanna loved it.
It was a tradition now, a superstition. She wouldn't have replaced the ugly tree with the richest blue spruce in the city.
"I can't quite see saying "I do" in something like this." She held up a sketch for Fran's perusal. The short, skinny dress was topped with a headpiece that resembled helicopter blades.
"Well, after, Finn could give you a spin and the two of you could glide down the aisle. Now this one's hot." She held up a drawing; the elongated model was spread-legged in a bare-midriff mini with spike-heeled boots.
"Only if I carry a whip instead of a bouquet."
"You'd get great press." She tossed it aside. "You don't have a lot of time to decide before April comes busting out all over."
"Don't remind me." She shuffled another sketch on top, her twin-diamond engagement ring flashing. A diamond for each year it had taken him to wear her down, he'd told her as he'd slipped it on her finger. "This one's nice."
Fran peeked over her shoulder. "That one's gorgeous." She oohed a bit over the billowing skirts and full sleeves. The bodice was snug, trimmed in pearls and lace with the design repeating on the flowing train. The headpiece was a simple circlet from which the frothy veil flowed.
"It's really stunning. Almost medieval. A real once-in-a-lifetime dress."
"You think so?"
Recognizing her interest, Fran narrowed her eyes. "You've already decided on it."
"I want a completely unbiased opinion. And yes," she admitted with a laugh. "I knew the minute I saw it." She tidied the pile, laying her choice on top. "I wish the rest of it were so simple. The photographer—"
"I'm in charge of that."
"The caterer."
"Cassie's department."
"Music, napkins, flowers, invitations," she said before Fran could interrupt her again. "Let me at least pretend this is driving me crazy." "Tough, when you've never looked happier in your life."
"I really have you to thank for it. You gave me the kick in the butt I needed."
"Glad to oblige. Now, we're going to get out of here while you've got a free evening and go down to Michigan Avenue for some trousseau shopping. With Finn on a shoot across town, this is the only chance I've got. There's not a minute to waste."
"I'm ready." She grabbed her purse as the phone rang. "Almost." Because Cassie was already gone for the day, Deanna answered herself. "Reynolds," she said out of habit, and her brilliant smile withered. "Angela." She glanced up and caught the interest in Fran's eye. "That's very nice of you. I'm sure Finn and I will be very happy."
"Of course you are," Angela cooed into the receiver as she continued to slice through a cover photo of Finn and Deanna with a letter opener. "You always were the confident one, Deanna."
To keep herself calm, Deanna shifted to study the teetering Christmas tree. "Is there something I can do for you?"
"No, not at all. There's something I want to do for you, dear. Let's call it an engagement gift. A little tidbit of information you might be interested in, about your fianc`e."
"There's nothing you can tell me about Finn I'd be interested in, Angela. I appreciate your best wishes, and now I'm afraid I'm just on my way out."
"Don't be in such a rush. I recall your having a healthy sense of curiosity. I doubt you've changed so much. It really would be very wise, for you and for Finn, if you listened to what I have to say."
"All right." Setting her teeth, Deanna sat down again. "I'm listening."
"Oh, no, dear, not over the phone. It so happens I'm in Chicago. A little business, a little pleasure."
"Yes, your luncheon with the League of Women Voters tomorrow. I read about it."
"There's that, and another little matter. But I'll be free for a chat, say, at midnight."
"The witching hour? Angela, that's so obvious, even for you."
"Watch your tone, or I won't give you the opportunity of hearing what I have to say before I go to the press. You can consider my generosity a combination engagement and Christmas gift, darling. Midnight," she repeated. "At the studio. My old studio."
"I don't — damn it." Echoing Angela's response, Deanna slammed down the phone.
"What's she up to?"
"I'm not sure." With her celebratory mood in tatters, Deanna stared into space. "She wants to meet with me. Claims she has some information I need to hear."
"She only wants to cause trouble, Dee." The worry was in Fran's voice, in her eyes. "She's in trouble. In the past six months, her show's gone dramatically downhill with rumors about her drinking, about her staging shows, bribing guests. It's hardly a surprise that she'd want to fly out on her broomstick and hand you a poisoned apple."
"I'm not worried about it." Deanna shook off the mood and rose again. "I'm not. It's time the two of us had it out once and for all. In private. There's nothing she can say or do that can hurt me."
PART THREE
All power of fancy over reason is a degree of insanity.
Chapter Twenty-three
But someone had hurt Angela.
Someone had killed her.
Deanna continued to scream, high, piercing cries that burned her throat like acid. Even when her vision grayed, Deanna couldn't take her eyes off the horror beside her. And she could smell the blood, hot and coppery and thick.
She had to escape before Angela reached out with that delicate, dead hand and squeezed it around her throat.
With little mewling sounds of panic, she crawled out of the chair, afraid to move too fast, afraid to take her eyes off of what had been Angela Perkins. Every move, every sound was echoed by the monitor while the camera objectively recorded, its round, dark eye staring. Something tugged her back. On a soundless gasping scream, Deanna lifted her hands to fight what she couldn't see, and tangled her fingers in the wires of a lapel mike.
"Oh God. Oh God." She tore herself free, hurling the mike aside and fleeing the set in a blind panic.
She stumbled, caught a horrified glimpse of herself in the wide wall mirror. A hot laugh bubbled in her throat. She looked insane, she thought wildly. And she bit down on her hysteria, afraid it would slide from her throat in a mad chuckle. She nearly fell, tripping over her own feet as she ran down the dark corridor. Someone was breathing down her neck. She could feel it, she knew it, hot, greedy breath whispering behind her.
Sobbing, she hurtled into her dressing room, slammed the door, threw the lock, then stood in the dark with her heart pounding like a rabbit's.